


Proxy

by unadrift



Series: Proxy Series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, one-sided Dean/Castiel, s06e10 Caged Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2010-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unadrift/pseuds/unadrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demons don't pray. They'd never even think of it. Except sometimes speaking up towards heaven seems like the more demonic thing to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proxy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tag for episode 6x10. Thank you to _icelily01_ for the beta!

Demons don't pray. They'd never even think of it. On occasion, they curse. That's all the communication that is ever sent from the damned to the too-damned-holy.

Except.

Except sometimes speaking up towards heaven seems like the more demonic thing to do than keeping your mouth shut. In the heat of the moment, it can seem like a good idea.

"Castiel," Meg breathes as she slides a hand up her shirt, under her bra to cup her breast, to thumb a nipple. She arches her back, already more turned on than she's been in long time. The idea of Castiel seeing her like this, of him staring at her the way he did before, like he wanted to make her scream using whatever means necessary, sends a shiver down her spine that has no right being this electric. She tilts her hips up and uses the new angle to push her pants down a little further, to finally find enough room to slide two fingers inside, pushing as far as they'll go.

"Are you listening, angel? Are you watching? Castiel!"

There's no answer, but Meg hadn't expected one. She stares at the cracked ceiling of the low-rate motel room and, for one brief moment, asks herself if this is really such a good idea. Then she thinks of Castiel's tongue, his hands fisted in her hair, the faint taste of mutual revulsion and aggression and want, and she can't help but grind the heel of her hand against her clit and gasp.

"I've got two fingers up my cunt. I'd like it even more if they were yours," she says, imagining the scandalized look on Castiel's face when he receives this piece of information. If he's getting the message at all. Which he's probably not.

Well, it's a scorching hot illusion while it lasts.

"My other hand is squeezing my breast, and now I'm--" she gasps, "--pinching my nipple. How about you do that to me? How about you put your tongue on me? I'm imagining that right now, your tongue teasing me, pushing inside me, and it's--" She does exactly that with her fingers and moans as she hits a hot spot. "I'd go down on you. I'd suck you. Imagine that, a demon sucking an angel's dick." She pulls her hand out from under her shirt and lifts it to slides two fingers in her mouth, runs her tongue along the length of them. It's too bad she has to remove them again to speak, but she does it. "Come on, angel. You could be running your fingers down my--"

"Stop that."

She freezes, one hand with spit-slick fingers on her breast under the shirt, the other down her pants. When she turns her head, she finds Castiel standing next to the bed, his eyes flicking nervously between her body and different spots in the motel room. His face is flushed.

"You need to stop. You're very distracting," he says.

Meg lets that sink in. She's more than a little surprised that Castiel was even listening.

"What?" she asks. "Too hot for the holy?"

Castiel narrows his eyes. "I could exorcise you," he says, and that's not an answer to her question. Also, no one ever seemed to have taken Castiel aside and explained to him how to be discreet about inappropriate or unwanted erections. His is pretty easy to spot.

"Or you could fuck me," Meg suggests, and oh, yes. She wants that so much right now.

She doesn't wait for him to reach a decision. She pulls her jeans and panties all the way off, throwing the bundle at Castiel. It bounces off his chest and drops to the floor.

He doesn't move.

She tilts her head at him. "What's it gonna be, angel? I can finish this myself, you know." She slides her hand between her legs to demonstrate.

Castiel is staring at her, wide-eyed, panicky, wholly non-angelic. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. When she throws her head back, gasping at the feel of her own fingers, he finally snaps. He struggles to get his trench coat off as quickly as possible, but of course he gets tangled in it. The sight would be hilarious, if she wasn't waiting for him, eager for him to get his hands on her. His limited success at removing the trench coat is enough of a frustration for Castiel that he climbs onto the bed and straddles Meg's legs fully clothed, looking furiously determined. She can't help but notice that the look is beyond hot on him.

Things get even better when he buries a hand in her hair and pulls her into a bruising kiss. It's unpracticed, but it's enthusiastic, so she has no complaints. Besides, angels turn out to be quick studies. At least this angel is. Meg hooks a hand behind his neck and fights back, fights him for control. She wins, of course, dropping her other hand to Castiel's crotch to feel him up through the fabric.

Castiel's breath hitches and he pulls away. He makes short work of her shirt and bra, tearing them none-too-gently over her head, not bothering with petty, complicated things like clasps. She takes advantage of his momentary distraction and pulls him in by the tie, bites at his mouth, kisses him roughly, all the while keeping a tight grip on the fabric, as if to prevent him from running. It's still a possibility. But then the tie is gone, as are the rest of his clothes, and there's suddenly so much skin to lick and bite and claw at that there must have been angelic powers at work.

It gives her a thrill to know that he used his powers for this, the powers bestowed upon him by God Himself. It drives home the fact that this is an _angel of the Lord_ ripping off her clothes and mouthing her neck. Because it's far from angelic, the way his mouth and tongue give back as good as he gets and better, until she can taste blood and recklessness and demand.

He's breathing harshly, hands gripping her arms hard enough to almost hurt as he pushes her back down into the mattress, arranges her into a position to his liking, despite her half-hearted attempts to refuse bending to his will. Her wrists are caught, clasped tightly by one of Castiel's hands, pushed against the headboard, and yeah, she thinks as he settles his weight between her spread legs, she's going to enjoy the hell out of this.

"Well, aren't you a real bad boy," Meg says, amused and a little breathless. Her sarcasm is completely lost, though, when he fucks into her in one vicious, perfect stroke that makes her gasp and dig her heels into his ass, already wordlessly begging for more of the same.

"Be silent," Castiel instructs in a tight voice and rolls his hips a little, carefully, like it's an experiment. He's trying to get used to it, she realizes. This is the first time he's done this, and he has to get used to the feeling, has to fight to keep control. The knowledge sparks something inside her, something harsh and vindictive, a desire to ruin this angel and drag him all the way down to her level and lower, kicking and screaming, because it's not going to be the other way around, never the other way around. She likes that plan. She likes it a lot. This is almost too good to be true.

There's a frown on Castiel's face, and then there isn't. He's biting his bottom lip and probably doesn't even realize it. She almost tells him to, "do what comes naturally, dammit, and quit dicking around". But. He's creating sparks of sensation that set enough of her nerves on fire that she forgets her agenda for a moment. She arches her back and wastes no effort on speaking, even though she had no intention of obeying any command of Castiel's.

Right at this moment she doesn't care, because he's worse off. Way, way worse off. He looks wrecked, with his head hanging down, his eyes closed, lips parted in the very picture of gluttony and lust, and that's two deadly sins to check off the list for this particular angel. Maybe he's aware. Maybe that's why he's keeping so frustratingly still.

"What's the hold-up?" she mocks when she gets her wits together enough to form a sentence. "Is my voice destroying the illusion?"

He chooses that moment to get on with the show, to pull back and give her one slow, deep stroke that makes her toes curl. It's his way to shut her up. The timing is no coincidence at all. He's still not looking at her.

Well, if this is how it's going to be-- This is something she can work with. Even better, it's something that'll work _for_ her just the same.

She slides her hands down his sides over his back to cup his ass, squeezing and pulling him in, wanting deeper and more. Castiel takes the hint, and she groans, because it's just as much of an improvement as she'd expected. But it could be even better.

"It's not me you want to--" she gasps, "--to do this to, right?"

He growls, possibly frustrated by her inability to obey commands, and bends to kiss her even more ruthlessly than before. It's just another way shut her up, for him to forget who he's doing this with, that he's doing this at all. And because this is Castiel, the knowledge doesn't ruin the experience for her. On the contrary. She runs with it, revels in his self-digsust and enjoys the feeling of his hands on her breasts, his tongue in her mouth, his dick filling her up. She lets him take, and she takes as much as she wants in return, pushing her hips up to meet every new thrust, running her hands up his chest, twisting his nipples hard enough to hurt.

"I'm not the one you want to fuck," she hisses against his lips, her fingernails scratching marks into his back.

His thrusts are punishment, whether for her or for himself, she doesn't know and doesn't care. The pace and force are screaming anger, are growing angrier by the second, and better by association, until Castiel is panting too hard to keep kissing and fucking her at the same time. He rests his forehead against her shoulder, his breath ghosting across her skin in hot, moist bursts, and for some reason this, _this_ , is too much like actual, human intimacy for her to handle.

She pushes, hard and fast, and rolls them over, then stays still above him and watches. His chest is heaving, his eyes are burning with all the sins he can't help wanting to commit with her, against her. It's impressive, and she isn't easily impressed. She's seen all circles of Hell.

"Poor little angel," she mocks. "Fallen for the most broken human you could find."

Castiel growls and moves, but she catches his wrists in a mirror image of their earlier position. He lets it happen, and that is almost enough to push her over the edge. She's been teetering on the brink for a while. His look is speaking of shame now, but the lust is still there, the hunger to be satisfied. He doesn't deny anything.

She smirks and bends forward until they're nose to nose, refusing him any kind of illusion, except the one he can achieve if he surrenders completely and closes his eyes under her scrutiny, opting for flight. He doesn't. She wouldn't have expected him to.

"I don't get it," she tells him. "What are you waiting for? You want him so much, go get him. That boy is ripe for the picking."

She pushes his hands into the pillow above his head and starts to move, fucks herself on his dick, watches him stare at her, flushed and desperate and so very angry.

"Not that I mind standing in," she barely manages to gasp out, because, oh fuck, this is good.  
She closes her eyes to savor the sensation of him deep inside her as she gyrates her hips. It's good, but it's not enough. She takes hold of both his wrists with one hand and moves the other down her body to stroke herself, because the possibility of Castiel knowing about a woman's buttons _and_ applying the knowledge to this situation is slim at best. She feels him stare at her as she's pleasuring herself while pleasuring him and comes like that, muscles clenching around Castiel hard enough that her vision frays at the edges and her arm gives out under her weight. He moans, raw and broken, but it's not enough to send him over the edge.

She finds herself draped over Castiel's body, her cheek pressed against his, with no idea how that happened. She needs a moment to catch her breath, but he's having none of that. Hands free now, he grabs her hips and starts thrusting up into her with inhuman strength, lifting her off the bed on every upstroke.

"Who knew," she pants and bites his neck. "Who knew you had it in you? Winchester doesn't know what he's missing."

Castiel huffs out a noise that is something between rage and longing and picks up the pace. He keeps going, on and on, eyes closed now, mouth slightly open. No way is this just the human body at work, not with this kind of stamina, not with a freaking virgin behind the steering wheel. She suspects angel powers at work again, and that makes it better, so unbearably good that she can feel another orgasm building. It's not building fast enough. Castiel is starting to lose his rhythm. He's getting close.

She tangles her hands in his hair and tongues his ear. "Say his name," she demands, voice low and filthy.

He starts making desperate little sounds, and she realizes only now how quiet he's been. His grip is so tight on her hips that his fingers will surely leave bruises.

"Come on," she whispers and tightens her hands in his hair to the point of it being painful. "Say his name when you come. You know you want to."

She doesn't even care whether she gets another climax out of this or not. She wants to hear the angel admit it. She wants to hear him say it.

"Come on, Cas," she hisses.

That does it.

"Dean," he whispers breathlessly, and then his whole body jerks as the orgasm is punched out of him. His eyes roll back in his head, his spine arches and he involuntarily bares his throat for her. She takes it as an invitation to mark him while he rides out the tremors.

"Dean," Castiel moans again, on a rush of breath. Then, slowly, limb by limb, his body relaxes under her.

They stay like that, with Castiel buried and softening inside her, for long enough that it becomes awkward for him. She, herself, doesn't mind all that much.

"Well, that was fun," she says and rolls off of him and over on her back to the other side of the bed. She turns her head to watch post-coital Castiel, because the sight should be interesting.

It's not.

Castiel keeps staring at the ceiling as his body winds down. In the end, his face goes from this prolonged shell-shocked expression to blankness in the blink of an eye. Meg blinks a second time and finds him standing at the foot of the bed, cleaned up and dressed. He's still flushed, though.

"You won't speak of this to anyone," Castiel tells the wall above the bed.

She considers feigning a broken heart at the brush-off, but she's too well-fucked to bother. She lifts herself up on her elbows, aware of how naked and filthy she is. It explains why Castiel is carefully not looking at her.

"Or what?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

Castiel does meet her eyes then. "I know where Sam and Dean keep the knife that can kill demons. And I will know where to find you."

The threat is clear enough. She smirks at him anyway.

"Don't pray to me again," he adds, and then he's gone.

"Yeah, yeah," she tells the empty room. "Don't call me, I'll call you. I get it."

She goes to find her pants and thinks that, maybe, Castiel will make good on the promise, and maybe he'll forget to bring the knife.


End file.
